Oh, what a change—a goodly change!I, too, am changed. I feel my heart expand;My spirit, long bowed down with misery,Grow light and buoyant 'mid these blessed scenes.—S.M.
Oh, what a change—a goodly change!I, too, am changed. I feel my heart expand;My spirit, long bowed down with misery,Grow light and buoyant 'mid these blessed scenes.—S.M.
As Elinor predicted, the miser slowly recovered, and for a few months his severe illness had a salutary effect upon his mind and temper. He was even inclined to treat his wife with more respect; and when informed by Dr. Moore of the birth of his son, he received the intelligence with less impatience than she had anticipated. But this gleam of sunshine did not last long. With returning strength his old monomania returned; and he began loudly to complain of the expense which his long illness had incurred, and to rave at the extortion of doctors and nurses; declaring the necessity of making every possible retrenchment, in order to replace the money so lost. Elinor did not live long enough to endure these fresh privations. She sunk into a lingering decline, and before her little boy could lisp her name, the friendly turf had closed over his heart-broken mother.
Small was the grief expressed by the miser for the death of his gentle partner. To avoid all unnecessary expense, she was buried in the churchyard, instead of occupying a place in the family vault; and no stone was erected during the life of the squire, to her memory.
It was a matter of surprise to the whole neighborhood that the young child survived his mother. His father leftNature to supply her place, and, but for the doting affection of Ruth, who came every night and morning to wash and feed him, out of pure affection to her dear mistress, the little Anthony would soon have occupied a place by his ill-fated mother.
The Squire never cast a thought upon his half-clad half-famished babe without bitterly cursing him as an additional and useless expense. Anthony was a quiet and sweet-tempered little fellow; the school in which he was educated taught him to endure with patience trials that would have broken the spirit of a less neglected child.
Except the kindness which he received from Ruth, who was now married to a laborer, and the mother of children of her own, he was a stranger to sympathy and affection; and he did not expect to receive from strangers the tenderness which he never experienced at home.
The mind of a child, like the mind of a grown person, requires excitement: and, as Anthony could neither read nor write, and his father seldom deigned to notice him, he was forced to seek abroad for those amusements which he could not obtain at home. By the time he had completed his eighth year he was to be seen daily mingling with the poor boys in the village, with face unwashed and hair uncombed, and clothes more ragged and dirty than those of his indigent associates.
One fine summer afternoon, while engaged in the exciting game of pitch-and-toss, a handsome elderly gentleman rode up to the group of boys, and asked the rosy ragged Anthony if he would run before him and open the gate that led to the Hall.
"Wait awhile," cried the little fellow, adroitly poising the halfpenny that he was about to throw, on the tip of hisfinger. "If I win by this toss I will show you the way to my father's."
"Your father!" said the gentleman, surveying attentively the ragged child. "Are you the gardener's son?"
"No, no," replied the boy, laughing and winking to his companions; "not quite so bad as that. My father is a rich man, though he acts like a poor one, and lets me, his only son, run about the streets without shoes. But, did I belong to skin-flint Pike, instead of one slice of bread to my milk and water, I might chance to get none. My father is the old Squire, and my name is Anthony Marcus Hurdlestone."
"His father and grandfather's names combined—names of evil omen have they been to me," sighed the stranger, who was, indeed, no other than Algernon Hurdlestone, who for eight long years had forgotten the solemn promise given to Elinor, that he would be a friend and guardian to her child. Nor would he now have remembered the circumstance, had not his own spoilt Godfrey been earnestly teasing him for a playmate. "Be a good boy, Godfrey, and I will bring you home a cousin to be a brother and playfellow," he said, as his conscience smote him for this long neglected duty; and ordering his groom to saddle his horse, he rode over to Oak Hall to treat with the miser for his son.
"Alas!" he thought, "can this neglected child be the son of my beautiful Elinor, and heir to the richest commoner in England? But the boy resembles my own dear Godfrey, and, for Elinor's sake, I will try and rescue him from the barbarous indifference of such a father."
Then, telling the bare-footed urchin that he was his uncle Algernon, and that he should come to Norgood Hall, and live with him, and have plenty to eat and drink, andpretty clothes to wear, and a nice pony of his own to ride, and a sweet little fellow of his own age to play with, he lifted the astonished and delighted child before him on the saddle, and was about to proceed to the Hall.
"The Squire does not live at the Hall," said the child, pulling at the rein, in order to give the horse another direction. Oh, no; he istoo poor(and he laughed outright) to live there."
"What do you mean, Anthony and why do you call Mr. Hurdlestone the Squire, instead of papa?"
"He never tells me to call him papa; he never calls me his son, or 'little boy,' or even 'Anthony,' or speaks to me as other fathers speak to their children. He calls me chit and brat, and rude noisy fellow; and it's 'Get out of my way, you little wretch! Don't come here to annoy me.' And how can I call him father or papa, when he treats me as if I did not belong to him?"
"My dear child, I much fear that you do not love your father."
"How can I, when he does not love me? If he would be kind to me, I would love him very much; for I have nothing in the world to love but old Shock, and he's half-starved. But he does love me, and I give him all I can spare from my meals, and that's little enough. I often wish for more, for poor Shock's sake; for they say that he was mamma's dog, and Ruth Candler told me that when mamma died, he used to go every day for months and lie upon her grave. Now was not that kind of Shock? I wish papa loved me only half as well as old Shock loved my mother, and I would not mind being starved, and going about the streets without shoes."
Thus the child, prattled on, revealing to his new companion the secrets of the prison-house. Had he looked upat that moment into his uncle's face, he would have seen the tear upon his cheeks. He pressed the poor child silently against him as they rode on.
"We will take Shock with us, Anthony, and he shall have plenty to eat as well as you."
"Oh, dear uncle, how we shall love you, both Shock and I!"
"But tell me, Anthony, has your father really left the Hall?"
"Long, long ago; as far back as I can remember. It is the first thing I can remember, since I awoke in this world and found myself alive, the removing to old Pike's cottage. The Squire said that he was too poor to live at the Hall, and there was plenty of room in the gardener's cottage for us three, and there we have lived ever since. See, uncle, we are now coming to it."
Algernon looked up and saw that they had entered a long avenue of lofty trees, which he recognised as a back way to the extensive gardens, at the extremity of which, and near the garden gate, stood a small cottage, once neat and comfortable, but now fast falling to decay. He had often played there with his brother and Grenard Pike in their childhood. The plastered walls of the tenement in many places had given way, and the broken windows were filled with pieces of board, which, if they kept out the wind and rain, dismally diminished the small portion of light which found its way through the dusty panes.
Fastening his horse to the moss-grown paling, Algernon proceeded to knock at the door.
"Who's there?" growled a deep voice from within.
"A gentleman wishes to speak to Mr. Hurdlestone."
"He's not at home to strangers," responded the former growl, without unclosing the door.
"That's Grenard Pike," whispered the boy. "You may be sure that the Squire is not far off."
"Imustsee Mr. Hurdlestone. I cannot wait until he returns," said Algernon, walking into the house "I ought, I think, to be no stranger here."
A small spare man, with sharp features, a brown leather face, thin lank black hair, and eyes like a snake, drew back from the door, as Algernon thus unceremoniously effected an entrance. His partner in penury, the miser, was seated at an old oak table making arithmetical calculations upon a bit of broken slate.
The tall stately figure of Mark Hurdlestone was, at this period, still unbent with age, and he rose from his seat, his face flushed with anger at being detected in sanctioning an untruth. His quick eye recognised his brother, and he motioned to him to take a seat on the bench near him.
It was not in the nature of the miser to consider Algernon a welcome visitor. He was continually haunted by the recollection of the ten thousand pounds that remorse had extorted from him, in the evil hour when death stared him in the face, and the fear of future punishment, for a brief season, triumphed over the besetting sin. He could not forgive Algernon for this dreadful sacrifice; and but for very shame would have asked him to return the money, giving him a bond to restore it at his death.
"Well, brother," he began, in his usual ungracious tones, "what business brings you here?"
"I came to ask of you a favor," said Algernon, seating himself, and drawing the little Anthony between his knees; "one which I hope that you will not refuse to grant."
"Humph!" said Mark. "I must tell you, without mincing the matter brother Algernon, that I never grantfavors in any shape. That I never ask favors of any one. That I never lend money, or borrow money. That I never require security for myself of others, or give my name as security to them. If such is your errand to me you may expect, what you will find—disappointment."
"Fortunately my visit to you has nothing to do with money. Nor do I think that the favor I am about to ask will cause you to make the least sacrifice. Will you give me this boy?"
The novel request created some surprise, it was so different from the one the miser expected. He looked from the ragged child to his fashionably-dressed brother, then to the child again, as if doubtful what answer to return. The living brown skeleton, Pike, slipped softly across the room to his side; and a glance of peculiar meaning shot from his rat-like eyes, into the dark, deep-set, searching orbs of the miser.
"What do you think of it, Pike? Hey!"
"It is too good an offer to be refused," whispered the avaricious satellite, who always looked upon himself as the miser's heir. "Take him at his word."
"What do you want with the child?" said Mark, turning to his brother. "Have you not a son of your own?"
"I have—a handsome clever little fellow. This nephew of mine greatly resembles him."
"He cannot be more like you than this child is, whom his mother dared to call mine. For my own part I never have, nor ever shall, consider him as such."
"Brother! brother! you cannot, dare not, insinuate aught against the honor of your wife!" and Algernon sprang from his seat, his cheeks burning with anger.
"Sit down, sit down," said the miser coldly; "I do not mean to quarrel with you on that score. In one sense ofthe word she was faithful. I gave her no opportunity of being otherwise. But her heart"—and his dark eye emitted an unnatural blaze of light—"her heart was false to me, or that boy could not have resembled you in every feature."
"These things happen every day," said Algernon. "Children often resemble their grandfathers and uncles more than they do their own parents. It is hard to blame poor Elinor for having a child like me. Let me look at you, boy," he continued, turning the child's head towards him as he spoke. "Are you so very, very like your uncle Algernon?" The extraordinary likeness could not fail to strike him. It filled the heart of the miser with envy, hatred, and all uncharitableness. Still the expression of the child's face was the only point of real resemblance; his features and complexion belonged to his father. "Your jealous fancy, Mark, has conjured up a phantom to annoy you. Where did this boy get his black eyes from, if not from you? his dark complexion? I am fair, my eyes are blue."
"He has his mother's eyes," sullenly returned the miser.
"I might as well accuse you of being the father of Godfrey, because he has your eyes."
"You cannot reason me out of my senses. This Anthony is as like you, Algernon, as two peas. He is your own son, and you are welcome to him. His absence will give me no pain, nor will his adoption by you extort from me one farthing for his future maintenance. If you persist in taking him it will be at your own risk."
"I am contented to accept the poor orphan on these terms," said the generous Algernon. "May God soften your iron heart towards your neglected child. While I have wealth he shall not want; and were I deprived of it to-morrow, he should share my bread while I have a crust."
"Fools and their money are soon parted," muttered the ungracious Mark; though in reality he was glad to embrace his brother's offer. No ties of paternal love bound him to the motherless child he had so cruelly neglected; and the father and son parted with mutual satisfaction, secretly hoping that they never might behold each other again.
"We have got rid of that pest, Grenard!" exclaimed the hard-hearted man, as he watched his brother lift the little Anthony into his saddle, and carefully dispose the folds of his cloak around the child to hide his rags from public observation. "If the child were not his own, would he take such care of him?"
"You cannot believe that," said the gaunt Cerberus. "You know that it is impossible."
"You may think so—perhaps you are right—but, Grenard, you were never married; never had any experience of the subtlety of woman. I have my own thoughts on the subject—I hate women—I have had cause to hate them—and I detest that boy for the likeness which he bears to my brother."
"Tush!" said the living skeleton, with more feeling of humanity than his niggardly patron. "Whose fault is it that you rob a woman of her love, and then accuse her of inconstancy because your son resembles the man that was the object of her thoughts? Is that reasonable, or like your good sense?"
How delightful was that first journey to the young pilgrim of hope; and he so lately the child of want and sorrow, whose eyes were ever bent to earth, his cheeks ever wet with tears!—he now laughed and carolled aloud in the redundant joy of his heart. "Oh, he was so happy, so happy." He had never been a mile from home—had never ridden on a horse; and now he was told he was tohave a horse of his own—a home of his own—a dear little cousin to play with, and a nice bed to sleep upon at night, not a bundle of filthy straw.
This was too much for his full heart to bear; it ran over, it was brimful of gladness and expectation, and the excited child sobbed himself to sleep in his good uncle's arms.
Poor old Shock was trotting beside the horse, and Anthony had been too much engrossed with his own marvellous change of fortune to notice Shock; but Shock did not forget him, and though he could not see—for the animal was blind—he often pricked up his ears, and raised his head to the horse and its double burden, to be sure that his young master was there.
It was a spaniel that Algernon had left a pup with Elinor when he went to India. The sight of the poor blind worn-out creature brought back to his mind so many painful recollections that his own eyes were wet with tears. The wife who had supplanted Elinor in his affections was dead. The grass grew rank upon Elinor's nameless grave; and her poor boy was sleeping within his sheltering arms, as if he had never known so soft a pillow.
Algernon looked down upon his beautiful but squalid face, and pressing his lips upon his pale brow, swore to love and cherish him as his own; and well did that careless but faithful heart keep its solemn covenant. The very reverse of the miser, Algernon was reckless of the future; he only lived for the present, which, after his disappointment in regard to Elinor, was all, he said, that a man in truth could call his own. Acting up to this principle, he was as much censured for his extravagance, as his brother was for his parsimony, by those persons who, like Timon's friends, daily shared his hospitality, and were too often the recipients of his lavish expenditure. In adopting the littleAnthony, he had followed the generous impulse of his heart, without reflecting that the separation of father and son, under their peculiar circumstances, might injure without ultimately benefiting the child.
He meant to love and take care of him; to be a father to him in the fullest sense of the word; his intentions doubtless were good, but his method of bringing him up was very likely to be followed by bad consequences. Algernon had no misgivings on the subject. He felt certain that the boy would not only inherit his father's immense wealth, (a large portion of which the law secured to him, independent of the caprice of his father,) but ever continue prosperous and happy. While musing upon these things, his horse turned into the park that surrounded his own fine mansion, and a beautiful boy bounded down the broad stone steps that led to the hall-door, and came running along the moonlit path to meet him,
"Health on his cheek, and gladness in his eye."
"Health on his cheek, and gladness in his eye."
"Well, dear papa! Have you brought me my cousin?"
"What will you give for him, Godfrey?" and the delighted father bent down to receive the clasp of the white arms, and the kiss of the impatient child.
"That's all I can afford. Perhaps he's not worth having after all;" and the spoilt child turned pettishly away.
Casting his eyes upon old Shock, he exclaimed, "Mercy! what an ugly dog. A perfect brute!"
"He was once a very handsome dog," said his father, as the groom assisted him to alight.
"It must be, a long time ago. I hope my cousin is better-looking than his dog."
"Why, what in the world have we got here?" said Mrs.Paisley, the housekeeper, who came to the door to welcome her master home; and into whose capacious arms the footman placed the sleeping Anthony, enveloped in his uncle's cloak.
"A present for you, Mrs. Paisley," said Algernon, "and one that I hope you will regard with peculiar care."
"A child!" screamed the good woman. "Why, la, sir; how did you come by it?"
"Honestly," returned Algernon, laughing.
"Letmelook at him," cried the eager Godfrey, as soon as they entered the room where supper was prepared for his father; and pulling the cloak away from his cousin's face,—"Is this dirty shabby boy the playfellow you promised me, papa?"
"The same."
"And he in rags!"
"That's no fault of his, my child."
"And has a torn cap, and no shoes!"
"Mrs. Paisley will soon wash, and dress, and make him quite smart; and then you will be proud of him."
"Well, we shall see," replied the boy, doubtingly. "But I never was fond of playing with dirty ragged children. But why is he dirty and ragged? I thought you told me, papa, that he was the son of my rich, rich uncle, and that he would have twice as much money as I?"
"And so he will."
"Then why is he in this condition?"
"His father is a miser."
"What is that?"
"A man that loves money better than his son; who would rather see him ragged and dirty, nay even dead, than expend upon his comfort a part of his useless riches. Are you not glad that your father is not a miser?"
"I don't know," said Godfrey; "he would save money to make me rich, and when he died all his wealth would be mine. Anthony is not so badly off after all, and I think I will try to love him, that he may give me a part of his great fortune by-and-by."
"Your love, springing from a selfish motive, would not be worth having. Besides, Godfrey, you will have a fortune of your own."
"I'm not so clear of that," said the boy, with a sly glance at his father. "People say that you will spend all your money on yourself, and leave none for me whenyoudie."
There was much—too much truth in this remark; and though Algernon laughed at what he termed his dear boy's wit, it stung him deeply. "Where can he have learned that?" he thought; "such an idea could never have entered into the heart of a child." Then turning to Mrs. Paisley, who had just entered the room, he said,—
"Take and wash and clothe that little boy; and when he is nicely dressed, bring him in to speak to his cousin."
"Come, my little man," said the old lady, gently shaking the juvenile stranger. "Come, wake up. You have slept long enough. Come this way with me."
"Whose clothes are you going to put upon him?" demanded Godfrey.
"Why in course, Master Godfrey, you will lend him some of yours?"
"Well, if I do, remember, Paisley, you are not to take my best."
During this colloquy, Anthony had gradually woke up, and turning from one strange face to another, he lost all his former confidence, and began to cry. Paisley, who was really interested in the child, kindly wiped away his tearswith the corner of her white apron, and gently led the weeper from the room.
While performing for him the long and painful ablutions which his condition required, Mrs. Paisley was astonished at his patience. "Why, Master Godfrey would have roared and kicked, like a mad thing that he is, if I had taken half the liberty with him," said the dame to herself. "Well, well, the little fellow seems to have a good temper of his own. Now you have got a clean face, my little man, let me look at you, and see what you are like."
She turned him round and round, took off her spectacles, carefully wiped them, and re-adjusting them upon her nose, looked at the child with as much astonishment as if he had been some rare creature that had never before been exhibited in a Christian land.
"Mercy on me! but the likeness is truly wonderful—his very image; all but the dark eye; and that he may have got from the mother, as Master Godfrey got his. I don't like to form hard thoughts of my master; but this is strange.—Mr. Glen!" and she rose hastily, and opened a door that led from her own little sanctuary into the servants' hall—"please to step in here for a moment."
"What's your pleasure, Mistress Paisley?" said the butler, a rosy, portly, good-natured man, of the regular John Bull breed, who, in snow-white trowsers, and blue-striped linen jacket, and a shirt adorned with a large frill (frills were then in fashion), strutted into the room. "Mistress Paisley, ma'arm, vot are your commands?"
"Oh, Mr. Glen," said the housekeeper, simpering, "I never command my equals—I leave my betters to do that. I wanted you just to look at this child."
"Look at him—vhy, vot's the matter vith un', Mrs.Paisley? He's generally a werry naughty boy; but he looks better tempered than usual to-day."
"Why, who do you take him for?" said Mrs. Paisley, evidently delighted at the butler's mistake.
"Vhy, for Master Godfrey—is it not? Hey—vot—vhy—no—it is—and it isn't. Vot comical demonstration is this?"
"Well, I don't wonder, Jacob, at your mistake—it is, and it is not. Had they been twins, they could not have been more alike. Godfrey, to be sure, has a haughty uppish look, which this child has not. But what do you think of our master now?"
"It must be his son."
The good woman nodded. "Such likenesses cannot come by accident. It is a good thing that my poor dear mistress did not live to see this day—and she so jealous of him—it would have broken her heart."
"Aye, you may vell say that, Mrs. Paisley. And some men are cruel, deceitful, partic'lar them there frank sort of men, like the Kurnel. They are so pleasant like, that people never thinks they can be as bad as other volk. They have sich han hinnocent vay vith them. I vonder maister vos not ashamed of his old servants seeing him bring home a child so like himself."
"Well, my dear, and what is your name?" said Mrs. Paisley, addressing her wondering charge.
"Anthony Hurdlestone."
"Do you hear that, Mrs. Paisley?"
"Anthony Hurdlestone! Oh, shame, shame," said the good woman. "It would have been only decent, Mr. Glen, for the Colonel to have called him by some other name. Who's your father, my little man?"
"Squire Hurdlestone."
"Humph!" responded the interrogator. "And your mother?"
"She's in the churchyard."
"How long has she been dead?"
"I don't know; but Ruth does. She died when I was a baby."
"And who took care of you, my poor little fellow?" asked Mrs. Paisley, whose maternal feelings were greatly interested in the child.
"God, and Ruth Candler! If it had not been for her, the folks said that I should have been starved long ago."
"That has been the 'oman, doubtless, that the Kurnel left him with," said the butler. "Vell, my young squire, you'll be in no danger of starvation in this house. Your papa is rich enough to keep you."
"He may be rich," said Anthony; "but, for all that, the poorest man in the parish of Ashton is richer than he."
"Come, come, my little gentleman, you are talking of what you know nothing about," said Mrs. Paisley. "I must now take you into the parlor, to see your papa and your little brother."
"He's not my papa," said Anthony; "I wish he were. Oh, if you could see my papa—ha! ha!—you would not forget him in a hurry; and if he chanced to box your ears, or pinch your cheek, or rap your head with his knuckles, you would not forget that in a hurry."
"You have got a new papa, now; so you may forget the old one. Now, hold your head up like a man, and follow me."
Colonel Hurdlestone was lounging over his wine; his little son was sitting over against him, imitating his air and manner, and playing with, rather than drinking from, the full glass of port before him.
"Mrs. Paisley!" he cried, with the authority of an old man of fifty, "tell Glen to send up some sweet madeira—I hate port. Ha! little miser, is that you?" springing from his chair. "Why, I thought it was myself. Now, mind, don't soil those clothes, for they don't belong to you."
"Never mind, Anthony," said his uncle. "To-morrow I will have some made for you. Mrs. Paisley, are not these children strikingly alike?"
"Why, yes, your honor, they are too much alike to be lucky. Master Godfrey may lay all his mischievous pranks upon this young one, and you will never find out the mistake."
"Thank you, Paisley, for the hint. Come and sit by me, double, and let us be friends."
"I am sure you look like brothers—ay, and twin brothers, too," said Mrs. Paisley.
"They are first cousins," said Algernon, gravely. "This child is the only son and heir of my rich brother, Mrs. Paisley: I beg that he may be treated accordingly."
"Oh, certainly, sir. I never had a child so like my husband as this boy is like you."
"Very likely, Mrs. Paisley," said the Colonel. "I have seen many children that did not resemble their fathers. Perhaps yours were in the same predicament?"
"Whether they were or no, they are all in heaven with their poor dear father," whimpered Mrs. Paisley, "and have left me a lone widow, with no one to love or take care of me."
"Jacob Glen says that you are a good hand at taking care of yourself, Paisley," said Godfrey; "but I dare say Master Jacob would be glad of taking care of you himself. Here's your good health, Mrs. P——;" and down went the madeira.
"Ah, Master Godfrey, you are just like your pa—you will have your joke. Lord bless the child! he has swallowed the whole glass of wine. He will be 'toxicated."
Godfrey and the Colonel laughed, while Anthony slid from his chair, and taking the housekeeper by the hand, said, in a gentle tone, "You have no one to love you, Mrs. Paisley. If you will be kind to me, I will love you."
"Who could help being kind to you, sweet child?" said the good woman, patting his curly head and kissing the rosy mouth he held up to her. "You are a good boy, and don't make fun of people, like some folks."
"That's me," said Godfrey. "Tony, you are quite welcome to my share of Mrs. Paisley; and instead of Benjamin's, you may stand a chance to get Jacob's portion also."
"Will you have some wine, Anthony?" said his uncle, handing him a glass as he spoke.
The child took the liquid, tasted it, and put it back on the table, with a very wry face. "I don't like it, uncle—it is medicine."
"You will like it well enough by and by," said Godfrey. "I suppose the stingy one at home only drinks Adam's ale?"
"What is that?"
"Water. A mess only fit for dogs and felons. Gentlemen, Anthony, rich gentlemen like you and me, always drink wine."
"I shall never like it," said the child. "I love milk."
"Milk! What a baby! Papa, he says that he never means to like wine. Is not that a shabby notion?"
"You, you young dog, are too fond of it already."
"I like everything that you like, pa!" said the spoilt youth. "If wine is good for you, it must be good for me.Remember, you told me yesterday that I must obey you in all things."
"Imitation is not obedience, Godfrey. I did not tell you to imitate me in all things. Wine in moderation may be good for a man, and help to beguile a weary hour, and yet may be very hurtful to boys."
"Well, I never can understand your philosophy, pa. A boy is a half-grown man; therefore a boy may take half as much wine as a man, and it will do him good. And as to imitation, I think that is a sort of practical obedience. Jacob Glen says, 'As the old cock crows, so crows the young one.'"
"You had better not quote my servants' sayings to me, Godfrey," said his father, frowning and pushing the wine from him. "I have treated you with too much indulgence, and am now reaping the fruit of my folly."
"Surely you are not angry with your Freddy, pa," said the beautiful boy, hanging upon Algernon's arm, and looking imploringly into his face. "It is all fun."
This was enough to calm the short-lived passion of the Colonel. One glance into that sparkling animated face, and all the faults of the boy were forgotten. He was, however, severely mortified by his impertinent remarks, and he determined to be more strict with him for the future, and broke his resolution the next minute.
Algernon Hurdlestone's life had been spent in making and breaking good resolutions. No wonder that he felt such a difficulty in keeping this. If we would remedy a fault, the reformation must be commenced on the instant. We must not give ourselves time to think over the matter, for if we do, nine chances out of ten, that we never carry our intentions into practice. Algernon often drank to excess, and too often suffered his young son to be a spectator of his criminal weakness. Godfrey was his constant companion both in hunting-parties and at the table; and the boy greatly enjoyed the coarse jokes and vulgar hilarity of the roystering uproarious country squires, who, to please the rich father, never failed to praise the witticisms of the son.
Thus the disposition of the child was corrupted, his tastes vitiated, his feelings blunted, and the fine affections of the heart destroyed at the age of ten years.
Algernon was so fond of him, so vain of his fine person and quick parts, that it blinded him to his many faults. He seldom noticed his habitual want of respect to himself, or the unfeeling and sarcastic remarks of the audacious lad on his own peculiar failings. To a stranger, Godfrey Hurdlestone presented the painful anomaly of the address and cunning of the man animating the breast of a child.
He inherited nothing in common with his father, but his profusion and love of company; and was utterly destitute of that kindliness of disposition and real warmth of heart, that so strongly characterised his too indulgent parent, and pleaded an excuse for many of his failings. He was still more unlike his cousin Anthony, although personally they could scarcely be known apart. The latter was serious and thoughtful beyond his years; was fond of quiet and retirement, preferring a book or a solitary walk to romping with Godfrey and his boisterous companions. He had been a child of sorrow, and acquainted with grief; and though he was happy now—too happy, he was wont to say—the cloud which ushered in his dawn of life still cast its dark shadow over the natural gaiety and sunshine of his heart.
His mind was like a rich landscape seen through a soft summer mist, which revealed just enough of the beautiful as to make the observer wish to behold more.
Gentle, truthful, and most winningly affectionate, Anthony had to be known to be loved; and those who enjoyed his confidence never wished to transfer their good will to his dashing cousin. He loved a few dear friends, but he shrunk from a crowd, and never cared to make many acquaintances. He soon formed a strong attachment to his uncle; the love which nature meant for his father was lavished with prodigality on this beloved relative, who cherished for his adopted son the most tender regard.
He loved the mocking, laughter-loving, mischievous Godfrey, who delighted to lay all his naughty tricks and devilries upon his quiet cousin; while he considered himself as his patron and protector, and often gave himself great airs of superiority. For the sake of peace, Anthony often yielded a disputed point to his impetuous companion, rather than awaken his turbulent temper into active operation. Yet he was no coward—on the contrary, he possessed twice the moral courage of his restless playmate; but a deep sense of gratitude to his good uncle, for the blessed change he had effected in his situation, pervaded his heart, and influenced all his actions.
The weary heart may mournO'er the wither'd hopes of youth,But the flowers so rudely shornStill leave the seeds of truth.J.W.D. Moodie.
The weary heart may mournO'er the wither'd hopes of youth,But the flowers so rudely shornStill leave the seeds of truth.
J.W.D. Moodie.
And years glided on. The trials of school, and all its joyous pastimes and short-lived sorrows, were over, and the cousins returned to spend the long-looked for and happy vacation at home. The curly-headed rosy-cheeked boys had expanded into fine tall lads of sixteen; blithe of heart, and strong of limb, full of the eager hopes and never-to-be-realized dreams of youth. With what delight they were welcomed by the Colonel! With what pride he turned them round and round, and examined the improvement in form and stature of the noble boys—wondering at first which was Anthony, and which his own dear mischievous rogue! They were so marvellously alike, that, seen at a distance, he scarcely knew which to call his son. And then how delightedly he listened to their laughing details of tricks and hoaxes, served off upon cross masters and tyrannical ushers, laughing more loudly than they, and suggesting improvements in mischievous pranks already too mischievous! Poor Algernon! in spite of the increasing infirmities of age, and the pressure of cares which his reckless extravagance could not fail to produce, he was perfectly happy in the company of these dear boys, and once more a boy himself.
He never inquired what progress they had made in their studies. He had put them to school, and paid for their schooling, and if they had not profited by their opportunities, it was no fault of his. Had he examined them upon this important subject, he would, indeed, have been surprised at the difference between them. Anthony, naturally studious, had made the most of his time, while master Godfrey had wasted his, and brought with him a small stock of literary acquirements, and many vices.
"What will my uncle say, when he finds how little you have learned during the last half year?" said Anthony to his cousin, while they were dressing for dinner.
"He'll never trouble his head about it, without you, Mr. Anthony, put him up to it, to show off your superior powers of drudgery. But mark me, Tony, if you dare to say one word about it, you and I shall quarrel."
"But what are we to do about Mr. Cunningham's letter? You know he gave me one to give to your father; and I much fear that it contains some remarks not very creditable to you."
"Did you give it to papa?"
"Not yet. Here it is."
"Let me look at the old fellow's autograph. What a bad hand for a schoolmaster! I will spare my dear lazy father the trouble of deciphering these villainous pot-hooks. Ha! ha! my good, industrious, quiet, plodding cousin Anthony, heir of Oak Hall, in the county of Wilts, there lies your amiable despatch;" and he spurned the torn document with his foot. "That's the way that I mean to serve all those who dare to criticise my actions."
"But, dear Godfrey, it is yourself that you injure by this awful waste of your time and talents."
"Talents!—Fiddlesticks! What care I for talents,without it were those shining substantial talents spoken of in the Scriptures—talents of gold and silver. Give me these talents, my boy, and you may profit by all the rest. Wasting of time! How can we waste that which we can neither overtake, nor detain when ours, and which when past is lost for ever? Miser of moments! in another school than thine, Godfrey Hurdlestone will learn to improve the present."
"But those wasted moments, Godfrey, how will the recollection of them embitter the future! Remember, my dear cousin, what our good chaplain often told us—'Time is but the ante-chamber to Eternity!'"
"What, turned preacher! A prudent move that, Tony. I've heard that old Ironsides has no less than five rich livings in his gift. Now, by Jove! I'd turn parson to-morrow, if I thought my uncle would be dutiful enough to bestow one or two of them upon me. How would the 'Rev. Godfrey Hurdlestone' look upon a visiting card?"
He wrote upon a card, and held it up to Anthony. "See the address of the Right Worshipful Rector of Ashton. Behold him riding upon a fine cob—living in a fine house—surrounded by sleek, well-fed, obsequious servants—his table served like a prince—his wine the best in the country—his parties the most brilliant—his friends the most obliging in the world—his curate does all the work for some paltry sixty pounds a-year, and the rich incumbent lives at his ease. Ah, Tony, what a prospect! What rare times we would have of it! To-morrow, when my father asks me to make choice of a profession, hang me if I do not say the Church."
"You are not fit for so sacred a calling, Godfrey; indeed you are not," said Anthony, fearful that his burlesquing cousin for once in his life was in earnest.
"I know that better than you can tell me, Tony, but 'tis such an easy way to get a living; I could enjoy such glorious indolence; could fish, and hunt, and shoot, and play the fiddle, and attend feasts and merry-makings, with such a happy consciousness of being found in the path of duty, that it would give a double zest to enjoyment. Now don't be envious, my dear demure cousin, and forestall me in my project. I am sure to gain my father's consent. It will save him so much trouble for the future."
Here the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Algernon.
"Come, boys, dinner is waiting. My dear Anthony, after that important business is dispatched, I want to talk to you in the library upon a matter of serious importance, which I have, I fear, neglected too long. Nay, don't look alarmed; it is not to administer a scolding, or to question you in Greek or Latin; or to ask you how you have improved your time at school, for I take it for granted that you have both done your best, or I should have heard from Mr. Cunningham, who, they say, is the strictest disciplinarian in the kingdom."
Now, Anthony could not eat his dinner for thinking what his uncle had to say to him; but he had to wait patiently until that gentleman had discussed his bottle of wine; and it was not without a certain sinking of the heart that he rose to follow him to the library. Godfrey's curiosity was aroused; he fancied that it was to make some private inquiries as to his conduct at school, that his father wanted to speak alone with his cousin.
"May I come?"
"No, my boy. What I have to say to Anthony is for him alone."
"Humph!" said Godfrey; then whispering to Anthonyas he passed, "No tales out of school, Tony," he sauntered into the garden.
"What ails you, Anthony?" said the good-natured uncle, as he took a seat by the table.
"I don't know," returned the lad; "I felt afraid"—he hesitated—
"Afraid of what?"
"That you were tired of me—wished me to leave you."
"I should much sooner be tired of myself. Don't you know, perverse boy, how dearly I love you;" and he put his arm round the stripling and drew him to his breast. "Godfrey himself is not more dear, son of my murdered Elinor—son of my heart."
There was a long pause; at length the Colonel said, "It was of your father that I wished to speak. We have let eight years pass away without holding the least intercourse with him; in this, I think we have been to blame. The first year you came to me I wrote to him twice, informing him how you were, and suggesting your future mode of education. To my first letter I received the following answer:—
'To Algernon Hurdlestone, Esq.'In adopting my son you pleased yourself. Had he remained with me I should have provided for him. As matters at present stand, I neither wish to be troubled with letters from him nor from you. When you next write I would thank you to pay thepost.'Yours, &c.,'Marcus Hurdlestone.'
'To Algernon Hurdlestone, Esq.
'In adopting my son you pleased yourself. Had he remained with me I should have provided for him. As matters at present stand, I neither wish to be troubled with letters from him nor from you. When you next write I would thank you to pay thepost.
'Yours, &c.,
'Marcus Hurdlestone.'
"Now, Tony, I was somewhat discouraged by this ungracious answer; however as I knew the man, I wrote to him again and did pay the post; I took no notice of the tenor of his letter, but merely informed him that I had put you to school, and that you were growing a fine clever lad. Here is his reply:—